


Detective Damian

by edinbourgeois



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Food Poisoning, M/M, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edinbourgeois/pseuds/edinbourgeois
Summary: Illness has been plaguing senior employees at Wayne Enterprises, and a high ranking executive dies in a board meeting. Damian and Jon decide its worth investigating.





	1. Food Poisoning

**Author's Note:**

> "Winston, if I were your wife, I'd put poison in your coffee."  
> "Madam, if I were your husband I'd drink it!"  
> Nancy Astor and Winston Churchill.

Timothy Drake Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Red Robin, socialite, Gothamite blue blood, and GQ’s best dressed man of the year was vomiting profusely into the toilet in the small bathroom off his office in Wayne Enterprises. 

He had been feeling slightly off all day, and he supposed this must be the cause. A mild headache he’d originally assumed to be caffeine withdrawal and had treated with an espresso. Dizziness later he had ascribed to exhaustion. Cramps Tim put down to an active life style, involving him walking to meetings if possible, swimming in the late afternoons, and fighting crime on the roof tops of Gotham. When he had felt his mouth become increasingly moist he hadn’t noticed it at the time. But when he felt his stomach lurch, and felt the hot acid burn begin to move up his throat he had thrown himself out of his chair and to the bathroom. 

He spewed out everything he had eaten in the last few hours and felt suitably wretched. He flushed the vomit, unlocked the door and slumped in one of the arm chairs in his office. He had felt like this before after the Wayne family had ordered take away from a disreputable restaurant and had colonised the Manor’s many toilets. 

Food poisoning probably. He felt the stomach muscles cramp and twist. He opened the bottle of water ever present on his desk and drank. Food poisoning he knew was seldom cause for much alarm, but the dehydration it caused could be, and Tim was not in the mood to be lectured by Bruce or Alfred on the importance of drinking water. 

The water cooled the back of his throat, relieving some of the burning sensation. He couldn’t work like this. He opened up his phone and found the first name in his contact. 

“Alfred, I’m not well, can you pick me up from work?” 

“Master Timothy! Do you require the hospital or will the Manor’s medical supplies suffice?” the Butler’s warm British voice was concerned but not without a tinge of irony. Tim couldn’t blame him. The numerous injuries the family had sustained over the years would have cause any sane family to inquire after hospital loyalty schemes, but in the Wayne clan had merely been treated at home. 

“The manor please Alfred. Food poisoning.” Tim croaked out.”

“Yes Master Timothy, we’ll be there in 5 minutes.”

“We?” Tim asked, running through the probability of answers. Cassie was in Hong Kong with Bruce. Dick was in Bludhaven. Jason was with Roy on the West coast. Oh great.  
“Master Damian is with me sir and has just been picked up from school.” Alfred’s voice was as ever to knowing for comfort Tim thought. 

“Ok. See you soon.” Tim ended the call. Damn. He didn’t really want to see the brat right now, especially not in this state. Their relationship had improved over recent months but Damian, touchy and aggressive, was not easy company. 

Tim packed his laptop, travel coffee cup, and a few files into his back. He made his way into the one of the glass elevators. He pressed the button for the ground floor and began to descend passing floor after floor of employees. He always enjoyed this route out of the sky scraper. Due to the open plan, separated only by walls of glass (bulletproof though few employees would know it), and cool lighting, someone in the elevator had the impression of continuous activity as employees walked between meetings, sat at their desks, and moved around the expansive office. The Wayne family were powerful and rich, and had a vast empire of businesses and charities, but due to the scattering of their interests, it was hard to summon any one image to mind that recalled just how powerful rich they truly were. The best way to imagine how vast the Wayne Empire was one needed to remember that Wayne Enterprises HQ, with 41 floors housing 600 staff, 50 meeting rooms, 10 laboratories and over a thousand computers was required to administer it. 

Tim nodded and smiled at the employees as they came and out of the lift, although he made no effort to speak. Opening his mouth seemed unwise when he might spew. 

He exited the elevator into the lobby, strode towards the door, presented his key card to the exit pad, got through the door, saw the black Rolls Royce waiting for him and made towards it. Damian opened the pavement side door from the inside before sliding back in revulsion as Tim vomited into the gutter, trying to avoid splattering the pristine car with sick. Tim braced himself against the side of the car and vomited again. After assuring himself that this emission was surely it, Tim climbed into the car. 

Damian surprised him by handing him water and a small bucket. The boy then slid back to the other side of the back seat again and looked away. Really he was improving since he’d begun to date Jon Kent. More compassionate. Treating people half as well as his pets was a sign of personal development that Jon had surely encouraged. 

“Master Timothy, drink the water. Dehydration is one of the most damaging results of food poisoning.” 

“Yes Alfred.”

“This is possibly due to the amount of coffee you drink on a daily basis, Master Timothy.”

“Yes Alfred.”

“And do try not to vomit in the car, Master Timothy, I just had it cleaned.”

“Yes Alfred.”

“Are you going to keep saying my name and an affirmative to every question I ask until we get home young master?”

Timothy paused. 

“No, Alfie.” 

He saw the butler’s eyes crinkle at that comment, as the car weaved through Gotham traffic.


	2. Food Poisoning, or Norovirus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "She hath pursued conclusions infinite of easy ways to die."  
> William Shakespeare, Anthony and Cleopatra

Tim spent an indecorous evening moving between his bed and the toilet, this frequent journey augmented by Alfred bringing him sports drinks and crackers. Tim took the painkillers, anti-inflammatories, the drinks, the food, and proceeded to vomit them up in turn. He made so many trips to the bathroom and spent so long on each that he began to consider sending out change of address cards. 

His headache began to subside around 11PM but he decided that it was not wise to go out, nor to stray more than 30 feet from an available toilet. Damian accepted this with surprising ease- he and Jon would patrol Gotham. Tim supposed that must be there version of a date. Damian could punch bad guys, and Jon would get ice cream. Ideal for both. 

Tim pondered on the porcelain throne. There wasn’t much else to do after all. What could be making him so ill? Food poisoning seemed the most likely. Probably the fast food he had occasionally for lunch. Possibly something Alfred cooked, although Tim cast that thought aside EXTREMELY quickly, and resolved himself to never think of such blasphemy again. It might even be norovirus, in which case he had better avoid Damian and Alfred and advise them to douse everything with disinfectant else they get it too. 

The night was as restless as the evening, although Tim’s trips began to become less frequent as the sun began to rise until they stopped around 6AM. He even managed to keep down toast and a cup of coffee. Tim decided to dress and head to work. Tying his tie in one of the manor’s gilt mirrors Tim noticed the dark shadows under his eyes, and the pale slightly waxy tone to his skin. Tim didn’t look well, but then again, he didn’t really deserve to look well given he never slept anyway. 

Alfred drove Tim to work and made his usual fuss about Tim looking too thin, or too tired, or too something to work, but allowed him to exit the car and walk into Wayne Enterprises. Tim greeted his colleagues on his way to the lift, swiped his key card to the lift’s controls authorising it to take him to the restricted floor, reserved for the CEO and their personal staff. The high-ceilinged room near the top of the building that served as Tim’s personal reception was quiet and airy. He smiled at his staff. 

Mary, his personal assistant smiled at him from her desk. Her red hair was tied up in a tight bun, and she had a phone pressed to her ear with one hand, while the other was typing away at the laptop on her desk. 

James, his scheduling secretary nodded politely at Tim, before his eyes flicked back to his computer screen. Every so often he would pick up a pen and write something on the huge book in front of him. James’ job was one of the hardest, arranging Tim’s calendar of meetings, galas and the other assorted events that required the CEO’s attendance.   
In a small office, off the main room with the doors wide open sat his chief of staff Kenneth. Kenneth raised a hand to greet Tim, but otherwise said nothing. Kenneth’s advise on all things Wayne Enterprises was invaluable to Bruce, and Bruce considered him a part of the inner circle that ran the company. Kenneth was often curt, sometimes rude, and prone to stress, but he was infinitely generous and extremely intelligent. His balding head was bent over a large file and Tim decided not to bother him. 

Instead, Tim poured himself a cup of coffee from the drip machine that serviced the office and stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. This ritual was practiced. Tim had started putting sugar in his coffee when he had first started working at WE due to the appalling hot brown liquid that Bruce had considered coffee. Tim had never understood how a man who had such exquisite taste in other areas of his life could drink such awful coffee. When Tim had taken control of the company his first innovation had been to buy several decent coffee machines and invested in a better coffee supplier. But the sugar habit had stuck. In no other place did Tim put sugar in his coffee, but it had become a tradition and Tim valued it. He seldom got to do anything every day, and so he relished this one small act of normalcy. 

Tim’s second cup of coffee of the day flooded him with welcome caffeine and as he sat behind the huge desk, he felt the focus needed to run WE come to him. He started reading the thick file prepared for him by Human Resources, who were hiring two new Public Relations officers and wanted his input on the CVs they’d asked their interviewees to compile. 26 candidates had been selected for him to narrow down to 6. 

After reading the tenth CV he went for another coffee. After reading the twentieth he felt the unwelcome sensation of upcoming vomit and ran for his toilet, again. This emission had made him feel surprisingly better, and having flushed, helped himself to a bottle of water from the small fridge he went back to reading. 

Just before lunch, Mary hurried into the office. 

“Sorry to bother you Tim but Kenneth has had to head home- he’s been feeling very sick.” Her voice was sing song and warm, and Tim had to stifle a chuckle. Mary’s voice was so pleasant that she could make any news sound good. Any news up to and including “Russia has fired a nuclear missile at us” could be delivered by Mary and it would sound like a symphony. An alto speaking voice. Tim became aware that Mary was looking at him and he had not yet answered. He cut his musing short.

“Poor Kenneth. I’ve not been feeling well myself. Probably something going around. Could you ask HR to send around an email about Norovirus and the importance of hygiene?” 

“Yes Boss!” Came the musical voice and within seconds the red head was back at her desk and typing with incredible speed. 

Lunch was a sandwich from the vendor downstairs, loaded with carbs and protein, another coffee, and another bottle of water. 

Followed 30 minutes later with another vomit. His headache has also returned. He drank more water and headed down in the elevator to a board meeting. Bruce had phoned in from Hong Kong and Tim enjoyed the faces of the various heads of department as Bruce gave them detailed information on their Hong Kong operations with the occasional sound of splashing. Tim guessed he was in the bath. 

After the call, each department head went through their weekly report, given every Friday. These reports were comprehensive and dull, with the exception of the creative departments. Broadly speaking the company was divided into three. The creative team behind Wayne tech (led by Lucius) who invented and manufactured the various pieces of technology that was the cornerstone of the empire. The Non-profit team (usually led by Jason when he wasn’t on holiday with Roy) which ran the various philanthropic efforts that made the Wayne name. And finally, the necessary evil, the administrative departments, HR, PR, Marketing, Sales, Finance, Legal etc which managed the vast organisation. Tim’s job as CEO was to make judgements, consult the shareholders (his family) and coordinate the three branches. 

Tim and a few other executives helped themselves to the pots of coffee arranged on the table during the reports. He noticed the head of the marketing department load three spoonful’s of sugar into her coffee followed by an inordinate amount of milk. 

Seeing him notice Annabelle laughed and said “I don’t really like the taste of coffee if I’m honest, I just like the caffeine.”   
Annabelle was young, blond, beautiful, razor smart, and despite her blasphemy against coffee, Tim liked her very much. Tim mused. Wayne Enterprises adverts were inventive, informative, and given the increase in sales, they worked. She’d been his first hire to his board, over the heads of several of her more senior male colleagues expecting promotion. Her performances at board meetings were sleek and polished. Each colleague who questioned her was answered with assurance, and the thick file she brought with her was rarely consulted, but Tim knew it contained the answer to every conceivable question any of them could ask her. 

Tim observed that she looked thinner than normal and a little pale. Perhaps she was coming down with the virus that had plagued him and Kenneth. She began to read her report. A bead of sweat slipped from her brow and she wiped it away. 

The report was the usual marketing speak about data, and the need for loyalty schemes, etc. Annabelle was beginning to shake slightly as spoke. She stood up abruptly and stumbled towards the bin in the corner of the room and vomited heavily into it. 

Tim and a few of the others in the room stood immediately to offer help. She turned to reassure her colleagues, a hand raised. 

“Sorry about that.” She said weakly. “I am really not sur-“  
Annabelle collapsed onto the floor. Her body convulsed and her eyes rolled and twitched. She continued to vomit and Tim saw to his horror flecks of red coming from her mouth and nose.

“SOMEONE CALL A DOCTOR NOW.” Tim barked in panic. He knelt beside her trying to cradle her head. He had seen enough cases like this to know there was a risk that a patient may choke in their own vomit. 

The muscles and sinews across her body convulsed and twitched as she spasmed on the floor. She made no effort to speak, but her eyes watered and she looked helplessly at Tim.

She continued to writhe on the floor vomit gushing from her mouth onto the boardroom’s rug and over Tim. The smell was foul, vomit, garlic and coffee. Paramedics were in the room within 6 minutes (thank God Bruce had installed high speed elevators) and carried her onto a stretcher and out of the room. 

Tim held her hand as they took her out of the building, her hand tight and hot. The colour was rapidly draining from her contorted face. 

Tim made the necessary phone calls as she was loaded into the ambulance. The hospital would call her husband, Tim called Mary and told her to apologise to the cleaners, email the board and ask them to reconvene on Monday morning, and then called Alfred to bring the car round. 

The smell of the vomit on his suit made Tim spew into the gutter for the second time that week. Alfred was there within minutes, and drove Tim back to the manor to change. Tim stared out the window, and tried not to think of the panic he had seen in Annabelle’s eyes. The stench of her vomit prevented him from thinking of anything else. He noticed that there were flecks of her blood on his hands. Silently, in the back of the moving car, Tim decided to consult Dr Thompkins about whatever this virus was, and to burn these trousers, and to try and forget his closest friend at work collapsing in front of him.


	3. Bad News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:  
> Them it was their poison hurt.  
> –I tell the tale that I heard told.  
> Mithridates, he died old."  
> A E Houseman, A Shropshire Lad: LXII. Terence, this is stupid stuff

Tim joined Jon and Damian for dinner. 

“We heard from Alfie that you’re having quite the week Tim.” Said Jon smiling kindly. The Super Boy was spending the entire weekend at the Manor and Tim was relieved to have such a happy presence around. The problem with it being just being Alfred, Damian and himself at home was the lack of conversation. Alfred spoke only to nag, ask questions or be sarcastic. Tim rarely spoke at home. Damian discouraged conversation with Tim. This led to a quiet atmosphere which Tim, used to Dick and Jason, found wearing. 

Before Tim could respond to Jon, Damian cut in. “Don’t call Pennyworth Alfie, Jon.”

Tim opened his mouth to tell Damian off for being rude to Jon, Jon shot back “Oh shut up Dami you love nicknames.” 

Damian didn’t respond but merely turned his attention on Tim. 

“Describe your week then.” 

Tim didn’t mind the tone of voice, or the fact that the request was phrased like an order. This was Damian attempting to make conversation, and that was an improvement. At previous dinner’s he’d just tried to stab Tim. 

Tim described the virus going around WE and the horrific seizure that had happened to Annabelle. Jon expressed the appropriate sympathy and pestered Damian into talking about the history essays they were supposed to be writing on the Russian Revolution. 

The meal was simple, roasted chicken with vegetables and potatoes, but delightful. Tim sipped a glass of hock and tried to relax. Tried being the word. After trying and failing to clear his mind he began to contemplate his patrol that evening. His phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Tim sighed, excused himself from dinner, ignoring the pointed stares from Damian and Alfred and answered the phone. 

“Mary what is it?”

His PA’s voice was soft, the musical quality low and solemn, “Tim. I’m sorry, but Annabelle is dead.”

Tim leant against the wall and began to slide down it. He inhaled, willing the oxygen to fight off the panic. 

“Tim?” Mary’s asked.

“When did she… when did she die?” Tim didn’t know why he wanted to know this. His mind wasn’t working properly and asking questions seemed like the best course. 

“A few hours after she got to the hospital. She died from asphyxiation. I’m so sorry Tim, I know you liked her.” 

“Its okay Mary… Could you… could you…”

“I’ll draft an email to the staff, and I can write a letter to her husband for you?” Mary’s voice was reassuring, soft, as if speaking to a baby.

“I’ll write to her husband. Speak to you tomorrow Mary. Goodnight.” Tim ended the call and began to sob.

 

Damian was very good looking when he lectured, Jon thought, as he lay on the sofa in the Manor’s furthest sitting room. Jon had listened to Tim during his phone call and had promptly told Damian, hoping mainly that Damian would cut his older brother some slack. Tim had retreated to his bedroom, and Damian had guided Jon to this small sitting room in a disused wing of the manor. It was small, warm and sparsely furnished but due to its remoteness it had become Jon’s favourite place in the Manor. Few visitors would come this far, which gave Jon a lot of time alone with Damian, without Bruce’s watchful gaze. He looked up at Damian and found his green eyes blazing into him. Damian had probably just asked a question. 

“Sorry?” Jon asked. 

“Did you listen to a single word I just said?” Damian snapped.  
“Of course I did. I listened to the whole thing!” Jon lied. 

“Prove it.” 

Damn. Damian was good at this. 

Jon sighed. “Fine. You think that Annabelle, Tim’s friend who just died was poisoned. You think that Tim, and his other colleague Kenneth are also being poisoned. You don’t know why, or who is poisoning them, or even what poison has been used. You want to investigate, but don’t want to tell Tim yet, because you don’t want to upset him.”

“I didn’t say that.” Damian interrupted. 

“I know but it was implied. Anyway, you want to know there was poison for sure before you tell Tim. And you’ve been reading too much Agatha Christie.”

“I have not. There is no such thing.”

“Yes there is. You’re constantly paranoid about murderers.” Jon retorted. 

“That has nothing to do with Dame Agatha!” 

This was true, Jon thought. It had more to do with being Batman’s son. Jon didn't mock the paranoia too much though. With Damian's childhood it had probably been the only thing that kept him alive. 

“Well either way Hercule, we should start with the most obvious culprit.” Jon got off the sofa. His joke was rather good but might require a head start. Damian might be annoyed by it, but it was too good to miss. 

“And who would that be?” Damian asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“The butler.” Jon ran before Damian could hit him.


	4. Dr Marsh's test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARSENIC, n. A kind of cosmetic greatly affected by the ladies, whom it greatly affects in turn.
> 
> Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Jon regretted his joke about the Butler as he sat rubbing his bruised arm in Alfred’s parlour. As Damian and the Butler made what passed for small talk in the Manor, Jon looked around the room. It was part of a small suite of rooms on the ground floor, which included a small sitting room, bedroom bathroom, and a large study, all accessed by a door leading from the kitchen. This was Alfred’s domain. The room was small and comfortable. A small fire crackled in the grate, photos of the Wayne family decorated the mantle piece. The wallpaper was floral, the effect undercut by a shotgun mounted on the wall. An armchair, sofa and a small table were set by the fire. Alfred poured another cup of tea for himself and Damian, and sighed. 

“So Master Damian, Master Kent, I am quite sure this is not entirely a social visit, how can I help you?”

Jon was frankly surprised this question hadn’t come up when they’d knocked on the Butler’s door. Instead they’d been greeted with courtly manners, seated, fed tea, and spoken about the weather for 5 minutes. 

“We think Drake is being poisoned.”

Alfred’s face registered no surprise but he put down his tea cup onto the table and fixed Damian with a searching gaze. 

“Why?”

“His illness closely mirrors what he described in his dead colleague, and I believe it warrants investigation.”

“Have you considered Master Damian that you are becoming attached to Master Timothy, and are becoming paranoid on his behalf?” 

“I do not care about Drake, but his demise would cause upheaval in the Manor.” Damian said coolly. Jon merely smiled at the Butler. Damian protests too much. Jon knew that deep down Damian was quite fond and protective over his brothers and sister, despite his occasional attempts on their lives.   
Alfred’s lips twitched. 

“Is there anyway I can settle your fears about this? That does not involve you assaulting Master Tim for a blood sample?” Alfred’s voice was level but Jon thought he detected a note of sarcasm.

“Give me Tim’s suit.”

“I was going to throw that out Master Damian. Its soiled.”

“I know Pennyworth, but I require it first.” 

Alfred seemed to sense defeat. 

He stood up and led them out of the parlour, back into the kitchen, and through to the laundry room. The stately Butler gave them a plastic bag containing the foul smelling garment and told them to report back on their findings. 

Damian and Jon made their way to the study of the Manor and descended to the Batcave. 

Damian led Jon, who had been pressganged into holding the bag to the brightly lit lab in the cave. The white lights made Damian’s face appear more angular and colder than the soft lights of the house above. His bronze skin seemed lighter, more like gold, and with Jon’s Kryptonian eyes he could make out each delicate pore on Damian’s face. Jon set the bag on the large table in the centre of the lab. And continued to stare at Damian. He was so beautiful and delicate looking. 

“Sit down Kent.” 

Jon sat on a stool by the table. Damian pulled on latex gloves and a pair of goggles, and threw the same to Jon. He then began to take the vomit-soaked suit out of the bag. Jon wrinkled his nose. Super sensitivity sucked sometimes. Damian then began to scrape at some of the patches with a scalpel, and Jon watched small flakes begin to fall into a dish. Damian then filled the dish with water from a dispenser on another work surface. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asked.   
“Testing for poison.” 

“I guessed that much. Could you be more specific?” 

“No.”  
God Damian was infuriating.   
Jon watched as Damian set up a long-curved test tube in a holder so that it formed an upwards pointing U shape. Damian attached and fiddled with a complicated looking nozzle with a lump of something small and silver sticking out of the bottom in the test tube. Damian then lit a nearby Bunsen burner. He set up a stand holding a bowl at an angle above the nozzle. Jon’s boyfriend, his eyebrows mashed in concentration pulled off his gloves and replaced them with heat proof ones. He then poured the dish filled with the liquid from the suit into the tube, and Jon watched in fascination as the liquid descended to the bottom of the U shaped glass and began to rise up both sides. As it reached the nozzle it began to bubble, and Damian turned the nozzle with his left hand, and with the right directed the flame of the Bunsen burner next to the top of the nozzle. He stood, his hands protected by the gloves for 2 minutes without speaking. He then put down the burner, sealed the nozzle. And held up the bowl.   
A metallic black stain had spread across the porcelain. It was… 

“Kinda disappointing to be honest Damian.” Jon couldn’t help himself. He had expected something more dramatic, something more dazzling, something, well, more Damian. 

Damian sighed. 

“What I have just performed, Kent, is the Marsh test for arsenic. I have produced the arsenic from the vomit on Drake’s jacket. He was poisoned.”

Jon was silent for a few moments. Then he asked, “Who taught you to do that?”

“Why would that matter?” Damian shot back defensively. 

“It doesn’t so who taught you?” 

“West.” Damian muttered. 

“Wally taught you?” Jon was as relentless an interviewer as his mother. 

“He told me about it on one of the bonding trips Grayson made me take with him. I thought it moderately interesting. But Jon, you’re missing the point! Drake has been poisoned.” Damian was annoyed by the interruption.  
“But..” Jon said, “ But the vomit could be from either Tim or Annabelle.”  
“Whether the vomit is from Drake or from the victim, we know one or both of them has been poisoned with Arsenic.” Damian retorted.

Jon looked Damian in the eye, and Damian stared back at him. 

“What do you want us to do about it?” 

Damian grinned. “We investigate.”


End file.
